


Bon Appétit

by ArtfulDoodler



Category: Black Panther (2018), Black Panther (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Black!Reader - Freeform, F/M, Food Play, Food Sex, Oral Sex, Reader-Insert, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 00:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14580519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtfulDoodler/pseuds/ArtfulDoodler
Summary: Erik doesn't eat pussy. But you end up finding a way.





	Bon Appétit

“Please, Erik.”

She wanted me to eat her pussy. But brothers don’t do that. Not real brothers, anyway.

“Please, Erik,” she cooed, lying on her back, leg wide open, with me sucking her left breast, the nipple firm against my tongue like a hard piece of candy. “I’m so wet.” She took my hand and plunged it toward her crotch, my middle finger making a splash upon entrance. My penis ached with stiffness.

Saliva drooled from the corner of my mouth as I reluctantly came up for exasperated air. We had been through this before.

“Baby, I ain’t down with that. Literally ain’t down wit it.” My hand was now wandering through the wilderness of her thickly tangled bush.

“But you never tell me why.”

“Ain’t no why.”

“Well, how can you complain about something you’ve never had? I enjoy doing it to you and I ain’t complaining.”

“Hey.” I smiled. “I ain’t complaining when you do it either. Just seems more natural for a woman to do it for a man, though.”

“Why? I like to feel good, too. I don’t always cum when we have intercourse. I want to feel your mouth on me sometimes.” Her voice became heavy with sadness. “Do you not like the way I smell? You have an odour, too, you know.”

“What do I smell like?”

“Like dick.”

“Look.” I was now lying on my back, penis limp as a deflated balloon, hand clasped behind my head, eyes closed, trying to sort and rearrange the many thoughts scattered in my mind. “When I was coming up in the ‘hood, if a brother did that the other homeboys would kick him to the kerb and call him weak; a chump. You were considered a pussy if you ate pussy. You’re my woman and I want to make you happy, please you, but… I just need a little more time with that.” Suddenly, my mind cleared with a sweeping thought. “Let’s do it doggie-style!”

I tried to flip her on all fours but she karate-chopped me to the ribs and sent me flat on my back again. “No.” She was atop me like a professional wrestler going for a three count. “Doggie-style hasn’t anything to do with it. How many years has it been since you were raised in the ‘hood? And not only that, you’re not in a relationship with the homeboys. You’re in a relationship with me, and if we’re going to be and stay in this relationship, we both have to take as well as give. We’ve been seeing each other for six months and I ain’t got no head yet. And you better be careful. The statute of limitations is running out on blowjobs.”

“The what?”

Her nose flared slightly, and her soft hazel eyes stared at me from under neatly arched eyebrows. Her black curls spiralled just past her earlobes complementing her polished pearl teeth. Through slightly parted lips, she kissed me as I whispered, “Y/N.”

“You like fruit?”

I smiled back at her and stroked her neck with my index finger. “What you talking ‘bout, girl? Is the statute of limitations is running out on fruit, too.”

“Maybe.” She pushed herself up. “Pour yourself another drink.”

“Where you going, baby?”

Her firm, brown behind bouncing away from me was her only reply. I really wanted doggie-style now. Instead, I poured a glass of cabernet sauvignon, the sound of red liquid filling the room. Horace Silver’s compact disc was already loaded on the machine and when I punched play, Hank Mobley was soloing. The more wine I sipped, the more I became one with the silk sheets and puffy pillows. The whole room was soft, powdery, and smelled of perfume the way a woman’s room should smell. Two scented candles flickered from the nightstands, adding another dimension of sensuousness to the ambience.

Suddenly, out of the darkness in the room, a thought illuminated my mind. What did Y/N mean, did I like fruit? She knew I ate fruit for breakfast every morning. Hell, the birthmark on my ass is a strawberry. What was that all about?

Lying there with a furrowed brow, my thoughts swirling around imported wine, jazz, and inebriated smells, I could hear light switches flicking off and the sound of bare feet slapping against kitchen linoleum. She entered the room with a bowl of fruit in one hand and a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She lay beside me, taking a succulent wet strawberry and feeding me until I nibbled gently upon her fingertips. Then she grabbed another berry, slid down in the bed, spread her legs, and pushed the red fruit inside her vagina.

“I like lobster, too,” I said. “You think that’ll fit in there? Damn. You played me, girl.”

Starting deep within the valley between her breasts, my tongue avalanched down her stomach, over her navel, inside the thigh of one leg, around her ten toes and back up to the inside of another thigh, and then I was face-to-face with a fruit cunttail.

“Wait, wait.” She rose on one elbow, sipped some wine, and then motioned me to proceed. Like a kid forced to eat Brussels sprouts, I held my breath, inhaling deeply the smell of wetness and excitement. As if she were a chocolate ice cream cone, I licked and licked and licked until my tongue was going in circular motions, coming to a rest like a roulette wheel on her clitoris. Y/N began to moan and purr and rotate her hips and stroke my short dreadlocks, all the while murmuring, “Oh, Erik. You make my pussy feel so good.” Then, with her hands still on my head, she began to thrust against my tongue deeper and faster, each thrust punctuated with oohs and ahhs until I sucked the strawberry into my mouth and she screamed and convulsed from orgasmic fury.

I rose to my knees, chewing the fruit meticulously, savouring its taste, licking my lips for any remaining juices, swallowing every morsel. And it was good, too.

Before the night was through, I had devoured five strawberries, half a pound of grapes, two pears, sliced peaches, three plums, a banana, half an apple, two oranges, a kiwi, and something called a kumquat (whatever the hell that is).

“You got any pineapple, baby?” I asked in all seriousness, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

Hours passed as we made more love and drank and giggled and stroked another and rested. She cuddled in the crook of my arm, both of us basking in ecstasy’s afterglow. Thelonious Monk was playing now.

“Erik.” Her voice sounded far away, dripping with sugar.

“Yeah, baby.”

“Is there any more fruit left?”

“I think so.”

“Can you lick my ass?”

I bolted from the bed, scooped my clothes up in a ball, tossed a hat on my head, and tried to balance the act of running while stepping into my pants simultaneously, but not before stubbing my toe and smacking my forehead against a wall.

“Hell, naw!” I shouted, before closing the front door behind me, stepping out into the cool pink dawn, barefoot, then slowing my gait and reminiscing about the remaining grapes and oranges I had left by the bedside. What a nutritional waste it would be for them to spoil. After all, breakfast is indeed the most important meal of the day.


End file.
